


Ride

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 15:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12435393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Melkor finds his Mairon in a corset.





	Ride

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When a long, dull string of feverish skirmishes has both bored him to death and worn him out, he finally retires—even Valar need their rest, especially when their underlings are so hopelessly irritating as all of Mairon’s pitiful creations. The things born of other hands—the monstrosities Melkor found on his own when he came to this new land—are little better. They serve him well enough in that they scour the earth, happily devouring his many enemies, but he also needs a break from them as swiftly as he did the simpering fools from back ‘ _home_.’ So, when it’s all too much, and he can’t bear to look at one more bashed-in skull, he retires to his chambers.

‘Their’ chambers, Mairon sometimes says, when he thinks Melkor can’t hear. Out of a strange and begrudging fondness, Melkor doesn’t correct the misconception. He lets Mairon have his foolish notions, and a small part of Melkor, perhaps, does enjoy the knowledge that when Melkor reaches his ‘bedroom,’ Mairon will inevitably be there. 

Sure enough, when the heavy black door swings open, Mairon’s fire lights the darkness. The wide room is a mass of hollow shadows, but they slip into red-golds around the mattress, where Mairon sits squarely in the center, his slender back to Melkor’s front. His crimson hair cascades down his spine in wild waves, but he sweeps it over one shoulder when he turns to peer over the other, fixing Melkor with his burning gaze. The door swings shut under its own weight, and Melkor marches inside.

At the state of Mairon, his perfect nakedness marred only by one sample of close-cropped fabric, Melkor asks, “What is this?” He’s never seen the garment on Mairon’s fair skin before, but he recognizes the make. It’s the colour of rich mahogany, sucked against what little curves Mairon has, drawn together with white strings that aren’t quite done up in the back.

“A corset,” Mairon answers, though Melkor didn’t mean _that._ “Like what the firstborn wear.” And he hums it in that way of his, that seductive little lilt that he purrs only to his master, though it would have all the rest of Valinor on their knees. 

Melkor only stops when he’s flush against the bed. Then he hisses, “I know,” because he’s no fool, and: “Why are you in it?”

“You seem to like peeling their robes off me,” Mairon coos. His skilled hands hold the flimsy thing against his creamy breast—Melkor can see now that it isn’t nearly tight enough, though Mairon’s clearly done what he could. Melkor briefly contemplates tugging the long threads near the top so hard that Mairon loses all the wind that these silly forms of theirs need—these mortal-like shells are far weaker than their truths.

But Mairon’s shell is _beautiful_ , and Melkor does like looking at it. He lifts one hand to the nape of Mairon’s tapered neck, and he presses hard into the skin. Mairon hisses over the sharp scratch of his nail. 

And Melkor drags that single claw down, snapping each and every string that dares stand in his way. Mairon quivers and gasps, but he doesn’t pull away in the slightest, only arches and groans. He stays put as his master shreds his only scrap of clothing, until the last thread is broken, and the whole thing topples into Mairon’s lap: useless. 

Mairon is breathing hard. When he glances back over his shoulder, his eyes are smoldering, fiercer than his forge. 

And Melkor sinks down into his pretty skin, biting him and marring him and _fucking him_ far harder than the firstborn ever could, while Mairon shrieks in ecstasy and moans his name with love.


End file.
